


If I Were an Orc

by eyebrowofdoom



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Interspecies, M/M, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-05
Updated: 2002-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-25 00:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyebrowofdoom/pseuds/eyebrowofdoom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having taught Pippin one sort of lesson, Boromir finds the unruly young hobbit requires another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Were an Orc

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to Mordelhin for beta reading.

East of the ridge on which they had stopped to rest, the deserted country of Hollin rose and fell on its way toward the Misty Mountains, stony and spotted with wind-blown shrub. The others rested, at any rate. But in a dirt hollow amid the rocks, Boromir, Merry and Pippin were sparring.

Boromir lunged. Steel clinked, struck with only moderate force. Pippin parried, grinning. “Hah,” Boromir exclaimed, offering his blade on the converse angle. “Good,” he said.

“Now!” he cried, turning to Merry and making a cropped downward slash.

The smell of sausages, tended by Sam, wafted on the air.

Boromir turned back to Pippin. With his next blow, his weapon skated along the short blade and nicked the hobbit’s hand.

“Sorry, sorry!” Boromir exclaimed. But Pippin was already kicking him savagely in the shin. In another instant both the hobbits were launching themselves at him, roaring and implacable.

They toppled him, crying, “For the Shire!” Boromir was on his back with his arms full of two small, scuffling attackers.

Pippin was laughing, and shouting, “He’s got my arm, he’s got my arm!”

Further up the ridge, there was an abrupt break in the talking of the others. When Boromir looked up, Gandalf, Legolas and Gimli were staring at a dark smudge in the blue of the sky over by the horizon.

“Tis nothing,” Gimli rumbled. “Just a wisp of cloud.”

Boromir got up, brushing dust from his flank. Beside him, Aragorn had put aside his pipe, and stood, too. “It is moving fast, and against the wind,” Boromir said.

Legolas’s keen eyes widened. He exclaimed, “Crebain, from Dunland!”

The tableau of the others broke. “Hide!” Aragorn cried.

It was only after Boromir began to hustle them beneath the sparse cover of the scrub that Merry and Pippin looked properly at the shadow in the sky. It could indeed have been a small, dark bank of cloud, but for the speed and focus with which it plowed forward.

They shrank beneath the brambles as the shadow resolved itself into a great flock of dark birds and swept overhead, beating the air and shrieking.

And then the birds were gone, and it was the moment before everyone was going to get up, the moment before they were all going to start saying things. And Boromir said something to Pippin, whom he held quiet and still against him. He said softly, jovially, “If I were an orc, I would have eaten your head right off by now.” He ran his hand over Pippin’s curly head.

Merry, who had been lying against Boromir’s hip, replied without a trace of humour, “It is a good thing you are not an orc, then.”

The bushes rustled as the others began to stir.

* * *

They bedded down that night in a lightly grassed depression in the lee of a low escarpment. Their camp was cheerless, for the fire that had been doused would not be relit. They would make no beacon of their whereabouts for what traversed the skies over Hollin.

Sam’s was the first watch, though an uneasy Aragorn stayed up with him on the escarpment’s lip to watch the dark sky.

Below in camp, Pippin lay awake long after the others had fallen asleep, or so it seemed. At first Merry, beside him, had been awake too. He had seen Pippin lying upon his back, staring up at the sky, and had whispered, “Tis no good your looking out too, Pippin. That’s the watch’s job. If there is anything to see, they will see it.” But then he had subsided back into his bedding. After a time he snored softly.

Pippin watched the stars, bright and many. At last he got out of his sleeping roll and sat up, resting his head on his knees, eyes averted from the sky.

He looked over at where Boromir was lying, a number of paces away, at the edge of camp.

He got up and stepped carefully over Merry. When he reached Boromir, he saw that the man lay facing away from the others, into the night. Pippin skirted the end of the sleeping roll and lay down facing Boromir.

Pippin drew his leg back, and delivered a sharp kick to where he estimated the man’s shins were.

The impact was satisfying; the estimate true. “Eat my head off, would you?” Pippin hissed.

Boromir showed no sign of being awake.

Pippin kicked the man again.

Still the man lay serene. “I am talking to you!” Pippin hissed.

“Can not you sleep, little one?” Boromir said at last under his voice, opening one eye.

Pippin kicked him again, for good measure.

Boromir’s brow creased, and he opened both eyes. “Stop that,”

he whispered good-humouredly.

“Why should I?” Pippin demanded.

“Are you worried about the crows?” Boromir asked. “Would you like to sleep over here?”

“No!” Pippin said. He drew his foot back to kick again. Quick as a flash, Boromir caught his ankle.

Boromir rolled to his back and sat up. “You have come to taunt me into eating your head off, then?” he said. His face by starlight bore a smile. He released the hobbit’s ankle.

“Maybe,” Pippin said, his voice neutral. He gave his ankle a shake.

Boromir extracted himself from his bedding. “Well, let us go a little further away, so your dying screams do not disturb the others.”

Pippin looked at him. Then he got up and followed where the man led.

They had made their way almost to the edge of the depression when Boromir poked Pippin in the ribs. After a fraction of second to allow the hobbit to rush to defend himself, he delivered another poke to the other, now undefended, side. “Ooh,” Pippin gasped. Without further ado, Boromir wrestled Pippin to the ground and began to poke him all over in earnest.

“Why should I just eat your head, when I can have all of you?” Boromir whispered. “But I shall have to tenderise you first!”

“Oh no, no,” Pippin gasped, wriggling.

Pippin flailed, giggled and struggled with increasing desperation as Boromir’s fingers tormented him. He made a sound that was the opening of his throat ready for a great big squeal. Boromir clasped a large hand over his mouth.

“Hush!” Boromir whispered crossly, then proceeded to make things much, much worse. He immobilised Pippin’s lower body by clamping it between his thighs. Then he rolled to his side, taking the hobbit with him.

He took his hand off Pippin’s mouth for a moment, then wrapped his whole arm around the hobbit’s head and replaced the hand. Pippin’s “Oi!” was muffled.

Now with his free hand Boromir pushed Pippin’s tunic up and pulled at his undershirt until it came untucked. He began to run the tips of his fingers all over Pippin’s bare back, fast and light as a spider.

Helplessly, Pippin’s spine kinked and convulsed. He grabbed at the elbow of the tormenting arm, but was not strong enough to push it away. His breath sucked and heaved at the hand over his mouth.

This went on. At length Pippin’s spine stiffened into a rigid arch of distress, and he ceased to struggle, though his breath still sucked at Boromir’s hand.

Some appalling amount of time later, Boromir gentled his touch to a long, light stroke, and released Pippin’s mouth.

“Oh, it’s unbearable,” Pippin cried, only the faintest note of a giggle left in his voice. He threw his arms around Boromir’s neck and buried his face. “Unbearable.”

Boromir’s fingers trailed evenly up Pippin’s back. The hobbit shuddered. “No, you mustn’t,” Pippin whispered. “You mustn’t. Please stop!”

“Shh,” Boromir said. “You are in a state.” He rolled over onto his back, taking Pippin with him. He flattened his palms and skated them slowly along Pippin’s back.

“Is that better?” he whispered.

“I feel like worms are crawling inside my skin,” Pippin sighed. He twitched.

Boromir pressed his palms firmly into Pippin’s flesh, and moved them very slowly, making the skin ripple.

“And now?” he said.

“Mmm,” Pippin replied.

Boromir’s hands made a number of achingly slow passes.

His voice muffled in Boromir’s neck, the hobbit said, “Give us a kiss, then.”

Boromir’s hands stopped on Pippin’s back.

Boromir said, his voice gravelly, “All right.”

Boromir rolled Pippin over and pressed his lips softly against the hobbit’s. Pippin stared up at him.

Boromir kissed Pippin again, rather more thoroughly this time, with an open mouth. Pippin’s fingers tangled in Boromir’s hair.

“You do have a big tongue,” Pippin said at last, exhaling.

Boromir kissed a line from Pippin’s earlobe, down his neck. “Do you like it?” he asked.

“Worms!” Pippin squeaked, but he was well pinned down and his squirming was quite ineffective. Boromir, having reached his collarbone, began to kiss back up his neck, right up the centre of his wind pipe. Pippin said breathily, “I fancy I do, yes.”

They looked at each other. Slowly, they compared their tongues again.

Boromir said, “I have not tickled you here yet.” He slipped his hands up inside Pippin’s shirt at the front.

“Oh no, no more tickling please!” said Pippin. But he helped Boromir with the unbuttoning of his upper layers, and sat up so Boromir could drop it all off his shoulders.

Boromir took a great interest in the balls of Pippin’s bare shoulders, cupping and stroking them. It seemed he would determine whether he could get his hand all the way around Pippin’s upper arm with its round little bicep. Then he pushed Pippin back down, and this time it seemed they were having something of an argument with their tongues, or perhaps a wrestling match.

Boromir began to squeeze Pippin’s nipple quite hard. A squeak of protest was muffled by their joined mouths. The squeak died away, and Pippin’s back began to arch.

Boromir shifted down and applied his bearded mouth to the other nipple.

“Oh,” Pippin cried out. In an instant Boromir had reached up and slapped his hand over the hobbit’s mouth. Pippin began trying to dislodge it, his two little hands tugging at either side of Boromir’s single large one.

At last Pippin got the hand loose, but he merely guided it back to the neglected nipple.

“You must be quiet,” Boromir whispered, lifting his mouth and grinning for a moment, before dropping it again.

Pippin began bucking up against the heavy body over him, his breathing high and loud.

“Please,” Pippin squeaked at last.

Boromir chuckled. He gave Pippin’s nipple another lick. “What is it, little one?”

“Don’t be awful,” Pippin breathed, pressing his hips upwards. “You know very well, unless you wore armour to bed.”

“Oh,” Boromir said, “do you mean?”

He cupped his hand over the bulge in the front of Pippin’s breeches. Deliberately, he squeezed. Pippin looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“Let us get these little breeches off, eh?” Boromir said at last, breaking the stare.

“Just because you are abnormally large,” Pippin said with something of a tremor, “does not mean I am little, you know.”

“Is that so?” said Boromir, who had begun to work on the line of buttons closing the hobbit’s breeches.

“Yes,” said Pippin softly. He lifted his hips and Boromir slid his breeches down in an inefficient sort of way that involved trailing his fingers over Pippin’s behind. Pippin bit his lip.

Boromir lifted Pippin’s ankle and kissed the back of the hobbit’s bare knee. He said, “You will have to be careful, little Pippin, or I will show you just how abnormally large I am.”

“Oh,” Pippin said.

Boromir took hold of what he found springing up jauntily between Pippin’s legs. His calloused hand dwarfed its small, swollen contents. As he began to stroke, Pippin’s knees eased open, and then again, further.

“I venture you have done this before, little Pippin,” Boromir said warmly.

Pippin smiled. “I told you. I am not little,” he said, his voice low. He turned his head aside for a moment, sighed, and arched up into a stroke. “I venture you have, too,” he said.

“That is not any of your business,” Boromir replied.

“I imagine there is much of you that you would like to make my business,” Pippin said.

“You may be right,” Boromir replied, and his grip on Pippin tightened.

The hobbit’s mouth opened. Boromir bent forward to kiss it.

Pippin’s fingers scrabbled at Boromir’s tunic. When he could get his lips free, he said, “Help.”

“Ah,” Boromir said. He sat up and removed the offending tunic, and then the shirt underneath. He leaned back over the hobbit and began to kiss his neck.

“You are furry as a bear,” Pippin said, his fingers trailing on Boromir’s chest.

Boromir growled softly, his mouth vibrating against the hobbit’s throat. Pippin found the skin of Boromir’s long and hairless side and stroked.

His fingers found the tautened front of Boromir’s leathers, and the man fell to stillness. Then Boromir was up and off Pippin, fumbling to get his boots and leathers off.

Boromir crouched over Pippin again, and Pippin was following Boromir’s bare side all the way down, and finding his prize. Two small, quick and curious hands were all over Boromir’s thick length. “Ooh!” Pippin said.

After a moment of this, Boromir sighed, “Ah, little hobbit.”

Pippin lifted his head and began to rub his forehead in the furrow down the centre of Boromir’s chest. He wrapped his hand tight around Boromir, and found his longest finger barely overlapped with his thumb.

Pippin whimpered. He moved the ring of his fingers up and down.

At last the hobbit whispered, his breath against Boromir’s chest, “Do you think it would fit?”

Boromir tore Pippin’s hands away and dropped his hips onto the hobbit’s, sealing them together. “Do not speak so with your hands on me!” he exclaimed.

“Ooh,” Pippin protested. He bucked lazily against the man’s weight atop him. Still he rubbed his forehead on Boromir. He gave Boromir’s ribs a little lick.

At last the man said hoarsely, “Would you like to find out?”

“I think so,” Pippin whispered.

“By Elbereth,” Boromir said, and closed his eyes. He rocked his hips gently into Pippin’s.

“I shall have to go back to my gear for a moment,” he said at last. He got up. He became black against the night’s blue-black, then indistinguishable from the darkness.

When Boromir’s shape reappeared, he put something down on the grass next to Pippin.

“Here we are,” Boromir said. He kissed the hobbit wetly. Pippin stroked Boromir’s beard.

Boromir’s fingers, when they slid between the cheeks of Pippin’s rump, were slippery.

“Ahah,” Pippin said softly.

The sound froze on his lips, and his eyes opened wide.

“All right?” Boromir asked, sliding his finger home.

“That is one?” Pippin said. “Only one?”

“Is it all right?” Boromir said.

“Yes, yes,” Pippin said. “Oh, it is enormous.”

“But all right?” Boromir said.

“Yes,” Pippin said. He hooked his ankle around Boromir’s waist.

Boromir did something different with his finger, and Pippin’s eyes opened wide again.

“Is that the spot?” Boromir said.

“Oh,” Pippin said, “yes.”

Pippin said, “Oh,” and, “Yes,” a number of times more, his voice high and breathy. With his other hand, Boromir stroked the hobbit’s thigh. Pippin put his hand on the back of Boromir’s and followed the course of the stroking hand.

“Shall we try another?” Boromir asked.

“Mmph,” the hobbit replied.

Then Boromir was sliding two fingers inside, and Pippin was saying, “Oh my. That is as big as…”

“Someone your own size would be?” Boromir finished.

“Yes,” Pippin said, exhaling in a rush.

“That would be more like this,” Boromir said, and began to slide his fingers in and out of Pippin.

“Aye,” Pippin whimpered.

“How tight you are!” Boromir sighed. He leant forward and licked Pippin’s nipple. Pippin laced his fingers in Boromir’s hair.

When Boromir began to ease three fingers inside, Pippin squeaked quite sharply. And then got out, “I did not think… I had so much room in my body.”

Boromir put his mouth around Pippin’s part-wilted member and sucked. Pippin soon began to wriggle his toes, to strain his knees apart. He pawed at Boromir’s shoulder

Then he was slapping at Boromir’s shoulder. “Oh, come inside,” he cried, “come inside, I cannot wait!”

Boromir’s reply was muffled by the contents of his mouth. But he was soon up and to his knees, and oiling himself, and crouching over the hobbit. He hooked his hand under one of Pippin’s knees and pushed it up towards the hobbit’s chest. Pippin raised the other himself.

“Will you be comfortable enough like that?” Boromir asked.

“Yes, yes,” Pippin replied softly.

Then Boromir was nudging his blunt tip against Pippin. For the longest time he pushed at the small opening of Pippin’s body without success. His grunts were echoed by Pippin’s smaller ones. Pippin pressed shut his eyes. Then he turned his face aside and stared into the dark.

Boromir said hoarsely, “If it is too much, you must tell me to stop.”

“No,” Pippin said, “almost there. Keep coming.”

The hobbit’s back arched, and his mouth opened. “There,” he breathed at last.

“Indeed,” Boromir gasped. And then in a deep vibrato, “Oh.”

A fraction later Pippin’s hands flailed at Boromir’s forearms.

“All right,” Boromir said, “enough for now.” He stroked Pippin’s cheek. The hobbit’s breath rushed past the heel of his hand.

“How much is that?” Pippin said softly.

“Perhaps a third,” Boromir said.

“Oh,” Pippin said.

Boromir stroked the hobbit’s flagging erection. Pippin’s breathing was high and loud.

Boromir said, his voice weak, “Oh please, a little more.” He was pushing again, and Pippin was pawing frantically at his forearms.

“Ooh!” Pippin cried.

“A little more,” Boromir mumbled.

“Wait!” Pippin whimpered.

They were close to flush with each other, and Boromir was caressing Pippin’s cheek with trembling fingers. “Shh,” he said, “shh. Oh, I’m sorry.”

Pippin panted, and did not reply. Once more he had wilted. Boromir stroked him slowly.

“How is that now?” Boromir whispered after a moment.

“A little better,” Pippin got out softly. He had partly hardened again. He laid his hand on Boromir’s shoulder and felt it move as the man stroked him. He said, “My. I can almost feel you in the back of my throat.”

“Oh,” Boromir said, with a catch in his voice. And then, “Shall I move?”

“Yes, all right,” Pippin said.

Then Boromir was easing out a little way and rocking back in, and Pippin was saying, “Ooh,” as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Boromir was rocking gently along that small distance, and Pippin was saying, “Mmm.”

“Still hurt?” Boromir whispered.

“Yes, but…” Pippin gasped, “don’t stop.”

Then Boromir was rocking between all the way in and half way out, and Pippin’s murmur had become continuous.

Boromir was thrusting properly and groaning, “Yes, yes,” and Pippin was keening and lifting his hips to meet Boromir’s, and their skin was meeting with a soft slap. Boromir was gasping, “Do you like that?”

“Mmm!” Pippin was crying. “Mmm!”

Boromir had hold of Pippin’s heavily engorged flesh and was jerking roughly.

Pippin was crying sharply, “Oh!” He was spurting into the man’s hand.

Pippin’s body spasmed around Boromir, and the man stiffened and grabbed a bruising hold of the hobbit’s hips.

“Ah!” Boromir cried out, riding the small body beneath him hard.

“Oh,” Pippin squeaked, “so much of it!”

Amid irregular breathing, Boromir gave a short chuckle. The jerking of his hips slowed.

They lay still, arms around each other. Sweat pooled in the small of Boromir’s back. “You are a great big beast, you are,” Pippin sighed softly.

Boromir made a lazy attempt at a growl.

At length Boromir eased himself slowly loose, and Pippin stretched his legs out, giving each a little shake. Boromir rolled over, taking the hobbit with him, and laid some oddments of clothing over Pippin’s bare back. He kissed Pippin’s temple.

“Are you all right, do you think?” Boromir asked. He ran the back of his knuckles around the hobbit’s behind.

“I feel very hot, and sort of melty,” Pippin said. “I mean, I think so.”

“I hope so,” Boromir said softly. Beneath the draped clothes, he found grass stuck to the hobbit’s back. He brushed it away.

Now they were still, the night was dreadfully silent around them. It was as Aragorn had remarked earlier: no wholesome thing that lived seemed astir in Hollin.

“I heard a song about men and hobbits,” Pippin said, his face buried in the crook of Boromir’s neck.

“And where did a young hobbit like yourself hear such a song?” Boromir said.

“At the inn at Bree,” Pippin said.

“Where is Bree?”

“Across the Brandywine.”

“That is not any help,” Boromir said.

“Oh. It has another name, but I cannot remember,” said Pippin. And then, his voice quieter, “I am a very long way from home, aren’t I?”

“Never mind,” Boromir said, and stroked the hobbit’s hair. “You have many friends around you.”

“Much good they are,” Pippin said, “torturing me and threatening to eat my head off.”

Boromir said at last, “Was it a very bawdy song, then?”

“Oh yes,” Pippin replied. Boromir smiled against the hobbit’s forehead.

“I do not think we should talk about it,” Boromir said, “or we will never get any sleep.”

“If you think you will be getting any sleep,” Pippin said, “you have another thing coming.”

Nonetheless, they lay quiet.

“Will there be more crows, do you think?” Pippin whispered.

“I know not, little one,” Boromir said.

Boromir glanced about, eyes straining in the dark. Some distance away, the lip of the escarpment blacked an arc out of the stars. The two lumps that were the watch sat still.


End file.
